


a soft little thing

by Areiton



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Falling asleep in strange places, Fluff, Getting Together, James Bond needs a nap, M/M, Q Has a Cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 52
Kudos: 385





	a soft little thing

The first time it happens, it’s in Q-branch. He’s prattling on about the state of 007’s equipment, what little of it he managed to return and he’s disrupted by the soft snore to his right. 

Bond is leaning against the door jam, arms crossed, dead asleep on his feet. 

It stops his words, startling because--

Because Bond is dirty and there's blood on his collar, and there's rumpled put together disheveled quality that Q can't manage on his best days, and until this moment, in the quiet empty space where Q is most comfortable, he didn't realize it. That he was exhausted, running on the edge of collapse, and still standing. 

He finishes putting together the radio and gun that 007 will take and keeps one eye on the still sleeping assassin and so he notes when he blinks awake, a slight stiffening and shifting and then that delicate vulnerability is tucked away.

Ten minutes later, Bond is racing through the streets of London and Q is a small voice in his ear and the moment is gone. 

~*~

The second time it happens, Q notices right away. 007 is sitting in Q's chair, and his head keeps drooping. There’s blood on his collar and his tie is loose, and it’s not quite  _ relaxed _ , per se, but it’s the closest Q has ever seen Bond come to it. 

“Have you even been to get the bullet removed?” he mutters to himself, when 007 starts snoring, a soft little thing, and turns the lights down enough that he sleeps for almost an hour. 

~*~ 

He loses track of the third and fourth time, and thinks the fifth probably doesn’t count precisely, because Bond passed out from a concussion more than he actually  _ fell asleep. _

But there’s a pattern to it, a predictability that makes Q wonder. 

Because he’s a genius, yes, and a scientist to some degree and there’s something about the repetition of conditions and results that speaks of more than convenience. 

And because he’s Quartermaster and one does not become Quartermaster for MI6 without being  _ smart _ , in a purely practical way that says nothing of computers and exploding bits and bobs. 

He’s smart and he wonders. 

~*~ 

He’s seen 007 in nothing more than MI6 sweatpants and a sweat soaked shirt, performing his annual physical. 

He’s seen him in a three piece suit and a tux and a truly ridiculously tiny towel, and there was a memorable time in Thailand when he saw 007 in nothing at all. 

And he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man  _ vulnerable,  _ like something could reach out and touch  _ him _ \--the man, not the legendary agent or the debonair lover or the cold-eyed killer. 

But then--

There comes the morning he wakes up in his flat, and stumbles out to find Bond asleep on his couch, a gun on the table next to him and a cat in his lap. For a long moment, he can only stare because he’d  _ waited _ . 

He waited for  _ hours _ in Q-branch, waited for Bond to arrive when everyone else gave him scared, pitying sort of looks and Eve brought him dinner and sat with him, and eventually, when the hours ticked away and even Q could not justify it any longer, she drove him home and tucked him into his bed. 

And now he’s _here_ , and there’s blood on his fucking collar again, and he’s snoring, a soft little thing, and Q itches to reach out, to touch him. 

His fingers hover in the air, not quite daring, and he squeaks--a manful noise, he’ll insist later--as a strong hand snatches at him, catches his fingers tight, and squeezes. 

“Sorry,” Bond says, voice rusty. 

“For what?” Q asks, tartly, “falling asleep on my couch or bleeding on it?” 

He gets a smile and it’s breathtaking, because it’s crooked, a little boy bashful thing that he’s never seen, not in all the surveillance photos or mission reports or the smug grins he gets when Bond passes through Q-branch. 

This is real, and touchable, and his fingers twitch in Bond’s grasp. 

“For keeping you waiting,” Bond says sleepily. 

“You sleep, around me,” he blurts, suddenly, and his face flames when Bond blinks at him. 

Soft and sleepy, a little smile curls his lips and he tugs, drags Q down into his lap and snuggles into his neck with a sigh that sounds impossibly content. He presses a kiss like a promise to Q's throat and the corner of his lips and Q makes a noise, soft and disbelieving and James smiles a little. 

“You’re calming,” he says, and Q pets his hair while James holds him and drifts off to sleep. 


End file.
